Spiders

No wonder, then, under the
bridge by the riverside in dead
Wales, under the riverside
bridge spiders crawl and children
wince - the city is mince.

Webbed foot clammy in the damp
tunnel clinging to the cold stone
underfoot on the dead soil and a
weeping cry the wind is dying down
the sun is getting thin.
I see you have a piece of cake
oh today's the day I have to get
the eggs I need a plastic box.

I have earned none of this
but afternoon tea and
gravy in the hot wet sun.
We struggle in traps and straps
for the last currant bun,
falling through ancient dust,
and webs that linger on the Earth's crust.